"Well," he said, laughing, as he looked about the henhouse, "you all seem to be having a fit of dumps."
Nobody answered the white rooster, but a faint cluck or two came from some of the hens. They immediately put their heads back under their wings, however, as if ashamed of having spoken at all.
This was too much for the white rooster. He stood first on one yellow foot and then on the other. Turning his head from side to side, he said, "What's the use of looking so sad? Any one would think that you expected to be eaten by a band of hungry foxes."
Just then a brave little white bantam rooster hopped down from his perch. He strutted over to the big rooster and caused quite a flutter in the henhouse by saying:
"We're lively enough when our crops are full, but when we are starving, it is a wonder that we can hold our heads up at all. If I ever see that farmer's boy again, I'll—I'll—I'll peck his foot!"
"You won't see him until he feeds us," said the white rooster, "and then I guess you will peck his corn."
"Oh, oh!" moaned the brown hen. "Don't speak of a peck of corn."
"Madam," said the white rooster, bowing very low, "your trouble is my own,—that is, I'm hungry, too. But we might be worse off. We might be in a box on our way to market. It is true that we haven't had anything to eat to-day, but we at least have room enough to stretch our wings."
"Why, that is a fact," clucked the brown hen. And all the feathered family—even the smallest chickens—stretched their wings, and looked a little more cheerful.